


happy just to dance

by pinkish



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Falling In Love, Inspired by Music, Love songs, M/M, Protective Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson Feels, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, hints of Natasha/Clint/Maria if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4410398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkish/pseuds/pinkish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha sees what's happening before anyone else, knows what Sam's presents -- the records from the 20s, 30s, and 40s, mean before he does and before Bucky does. She tells Steve, who sees it next, then they watch as their friends figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	happy just to dance

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt from the lovely [faeryn](http://faeryn.tumblr.com/) :  
> winter falcon: Sam can’t stop buying 30s and 40s music he thinks Bucky will like, Bucky teaches him you don’t need old music to slow dance. Bonus points for tooth rotting fluff and/or shipper!Steve and shipper!natasha.
> 
> do I get bonus points??

“He did it again.”

Natasha’s low voice announced her presence just behind Steve’s armchair. He should be able to hear her come in the room, because _super soldier_ , but she always managed to sneak up on him. At this point, considering Steve was in his bedroom for crying out loud, he was pretty sure they were playing some kind of game and Steve knew neither the rules or when they’d started playing.  

“Who did what again?” Steve didn’t look up from his sketchbook, hesitant to take his eyes off of the drawing of Bruce and the Hulk that was appearing on the page.

“Sam. He bought more music for our friend.”

Nat didn’t like using Bucky’s name. She’d explained to Steve, once, that it was because she knew him when they both had different names. He hadn’t quite understood, but he enjoyed hearing her call him “our friend,” so he hadn’t pushed her to explain further.

“Oh?” Steve raised his eyebrows, tempted to look up, but sure that part of their game involved him acknowledging her presence as little as possible for as long as possible. He kept shading the Hulk’s scowl.

“ _Old_ music. _Your_ music.”

Something in Natasha’s voice finally drew his eyes up to meet hers. Steve couldn’t have said what he’d expected to see in her face, but he was surprised to see a mix of worry and excitement.

“Oh...kay. I’ll bite, Nat. Why does this matter?” He put his sketchbook on his bedside table and focused his attention entirely on Natasha, content to lose the game, once again.

“I think Sam is courting our friend.”

Steve laughed, but stopped when he realized that Nat hadn’t joined him in laughter. “You’re serious? Sam and Buck?”

Natasha rolled her eyes (and, expert eye-roller that she was, made it clear just how annoying it was that she had to explain this to Steve). “For a supersoldier, you’re pretty blind, you know? Are you sure you don’t have cataracts? I hear those are pretty common for people over the age of 50.”

Steve laughed, seeing Natasha’s lips turn up into a small smile, the closest she got to laughing when Barton or Hill weren’t nearby, but he let the idea of Bucky and Sam settle into his mind, determined to confirm this the next time he saw the two of them.

He didn’t have to wait long, as they all gathered in the mess at breakfast the next day. He watched as Sam navigated around the table, walking past an empty seat next to Natasha (who shot a look at Steve to make sure he was paying attention), and forgoing the more comfortable chair next to Steve in order to sit on the stool next to Bucky. He watched as Bucky slid a mug of coffee towards Sam, not black like Bucky took it. Given the smile on Sam’s face, Steve had to assume it held one cream and a tablespoon of sugar. (He and Sam had bonded, while Bucky had watched them silently -- or, maybe, fondly? -- over their preference for over-sweet coffee, choosing to overwhelm their taste buds instead of remember the taste of coffee mixed with mud and sand and grit that they’d gotten used to when they were overseas.)

Steve kept watching for the rest of the day as Sam made sure to stay close to Bucky -- not too close, not stifling, but nearby. Always within sight; often within reach. He noticed movements, gestures, that were too small to see if you weren’t paying close attention: Bucky nudging Sam on the shoulder and pointing to something on a tablet; Sam dropping a protein bar by Bucky’s hand and waiting for him to eat it; Bucky watching Sam out of the corner of his eye and relaxing when Sam settled on the couch next to him. And, just as Natasha had told him, Sam bringing Bucky records -- real, vinyl records, much to Stark’s dismay -- and waiting (eagerly, or was it nervously?) as Bucky listened to each one.

_[Open up your heart, let me in your heart, I’m pleadin’,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7hrdTdyEDo) _

_[No one else will do, ‘cause it’s only you I’m needin’,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7hrdTdyEDo) _

_[My fate you hold, my love, in your hands,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7hrdTdyEDo) _

_[But I know, Dear, that you don’t understand,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7hrdTdyEDo) _

Sometimes, Sam watched Bucky closely, waiting for a smile or a nod to show that Sam had chosen well, had found something that brought a happy memory to the fore. Other times, he’d pretend to be doing something else -- reading a book, mending his clothes, playing one of those flashy noisy games on his phone that only ever gave Steve headaches -- but Steve could see, now that he was looking for it, that Sam’s eyes would eventually make their way back to Bucky.

The next time Steve was sketching in his bedroom, he saw Natasha creep in through the window, and he pretended not to notice. She pretended not to notice him noticing, and everything was good.

“So, do you see it now?”

Steve laughed, “I _should_ get my eyes checked, shouldn’t I?”

Natasha smiled, briefly, before her brows furrowed in concerned. “Do you think ---”

Steve didn’t often see Natasha at a loss for words. She was frequently silent, but it always felt like she was _choosing_ to stay silent, rather than being unable to form her thoughts, so he went back to his sketchbook (this time, a silhouette of Sam in flight, reaching for a falling Bucky -- ok so maybe he was a little obsessed now...but he had been watching them really closely for the last few days, and when he had something on his mind, it usually came out on paper) and waited for Natasha to gather her thoughts.

“Do you think it’s real?”

He almost didn’t hear the question, it was so quiet.

“I...don’t know, Nat. I think only they do,” Steve said, hands still filling in the image of Bucky’s hand, so close to Sam’s.

“I used to think it could never be real.”

Another long pause.

“But,” Natasha’s voice was barely a whisper, now, “I hope it is.”

Steve didn’t know  what to say in response, so he nodded his head and kept sketching, going back to Bucky’s face and drawing in the smile that he wore when Sam was near.

* * *

Bucky waited until Steve headed to his room -- at nine, like every night, the old man -- and counted the minutes until Natalia -- _no, Nat_ \-- followed him. He was fairly certain they were going to talk about him. Nat had been watching him pretty closely for the last few weeks, and recently he felt the weight of another pair of eyes -- Steve’s. He looked at the other figure in the room -- the first person he’d called a friend since...well, _since_. Sam had been _giving_ him things lately. At first it was confusing, then it was comforting, but it had veered back into confusing again. He could tell that Sam was looking for something in his reaction. As far as Bucky could tell, Sam had never been disappointed in Bucky’s reactions (usually just a nod to let him know that, yes, that was a song), but there was something in Sam’s shoulders, in the way his eyes softened, in the twitch of his fingers, in the heat radiating from his body, that told him Sam was looking (hoping?) for something else.

He should be able to figure this out. He should be able to read this. He should be able to tell what Sam was thinking. He was not _effective_.

Bucky felt the frustration swell in his chest, flow into his arms, his fists, but then he felt Sam move toward him -- not touching him, moving only where Bucky could see him.

“Want some tea, Bucky?”

Bucky grunted his assent and started the (stupid embarrassing annoying useful helpful calming) breathing exercises that Sam had taught him in those first few days.

He kept breathing until Sam was standing in front of him, warm honey steam rising from a ridiculous Stark-branded mug (that the arrow bro had scrawled childish insults on in permanent marker). When he reached up to accept the mug, he let himself think the words his frustration had been obscuring:

_I want to know, because I want to give him what he’s looking for._

He smiled at Sam, thanking him silently for the tea -- for the friendship, for his presence -- and spent the rest of the night watching Sam just as covertly Sam was watching him.

When he went to sleep that night, he thought, maybe -- maybe -- he might know what Sam was looking for. Now he only had to figure out if Sam knew what he was looking for.

* * *

 

Sam brushed his fingers along the tops of the faded, worn record sleeves in the shop he’d been stopping in for the last couple of months. He waited until something -- a word, an image, a colour -- grabbed his attention, and pulled the record off the shelf, taking a closer look at the songs, and pushing the record back in its place. The owner of this shop was used to Sam’s process by now. The first few times he’d come in, she had tried to figure out what it was Sam was looking for -- had given him recommendations, quizzed him on what it was he wanted to listen to, if he wanted something for dancing or listening.

This time, though, he’d been in there for almost 45 minutes and nothing had jumped out at him.  He was waiting for -- inspiration? divine intervention? (Where was Thor when you needed him, right? Though Loki would probably have better taste in music, ethical problems notwithstanding...) Something to unclench the knot in his stomach for another day, when he felt a presence behind him.

“The sign says no loitering,” Liz (Sam was ashamed that he had to look down at her nametag to remember her name) said, grin belying the harsh voice.

Sam sighed. “Alright! Alright. I need your help.”

“Finally!” She threw her hands in the air as though praising whatever gods had led Sam to admit that he needed her. “So,” she said, “dancing or listening?”

Sam intended to say “listening,” had been about to say something about remembering, bringing a smile to an old friend’s (ha) face, but instead he heard his own voice say “Dancing.”

(Liz’s left eyebrow shot up, not surprised at the answer, but surprised that Sam had said it. She’d seen enough lovesick songbirds to know one when he came into her store every fucking day, but she’d been sure it would take, like, a shot or two or three of whiskey from her stash to coax it out of this one. )

“Alone, or...?” She knew the answer, of course, but really, really wanted to watch him as he realized what he was going to say.

“Oh, uh.” Sam’s face showed the traces of every emotion that passed through him -- confusion, surprise, embarrassment, happiness, worry, excitement, anxiousness, worry again, then -- “How long have you known?”

Liz smiled. “Come on, man.”

Sam was surprised at how loud his laughter was, until he realized that he was laughing from relief. He knew what the knot in his stomach was. He knew why he wanted so badly for Bucky to feel at home, to feel like he belonged, like he was somewhere good and nice and safe.  

Liz walked over to the shelf and pulled out a record and walked over to the counter with it, pausing for a second to wave impatiently for Sam to follow her.

“How do you know this is the right one?” He flipped the record over to see the word [Always](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Biv0-jBYscU). He blushed and handed over his credit card, shoving the record underneath his arm.

“I know,” she smirked and he rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’ll let you know if it works, then.”

“It will.” Then she winked. Winked. No one could wink without looking like an idiot, but dammit she looked cool.

Sam walked out of the store slowly, trying not to look like he was going to start running as soon as he got outside (though she could probably see his heart beating through the thin material of his t-shirt). He ran down the city streets, stopping only to catch his breath before heading up to the common room, where he expected to find Bucky and Nat doing something scary-hot, like sharpening their knife collection, or having a silent assassin-death-staring contest. When he got there, though, it was only Bucky. Bucky, who looked...nervous? Who looked like he’d been waiting, tapping his metal fingers against the wood of the couch’s arm in a sharp staccato. Sam paused, unsure if Bucky wanted him nearby, or if he should make himself as invisible as possible, when Bucky moved from sitting to standing, with hardly a step in between. Bucky shifted from one foot to the other (definitely nervous) and walked towards Sam. He paused by the stereo to press a button, and Sam was surprised to hear an [electronic, pulsing sound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qr5AIKRPIHo), realizing he’d been expecting to hear the scratch of an old recording, the sound of real strings plucked by human fingers.

He heard a low cough and realized he’d been staring at the stereo, had missed Bucky standing in front of him, hand out in invitation, the smile on his face seconds away from faltering.

“Wanna dance?"

Sam put his hand in Bucky’s and let himself be pulled in close. He felt Bucky’s fingers close around his, and felt the other hand rest in the middle of his back.  He followed Bucky’s lead, swaying to the slow, lazy push and pull of the song. He was going to enjoy telling Liz that she’d been wrong -- that he didn’t need some song from a century ago to tell Bucky what he wanted to say, because Bucky was here, now -- with him.

_Wrap me in your arms_

_I can’t feel it, but..._

_Wrap me in your arms_

 

Sam tightened his arms and leaned his cheek against Bucky’s.  He let his breathing match Bucky’s until he could hardly tell where he ended and Bucky began.

 

_My baby does the hanky-panky_

_My baby does..._

 

Sam huffed a small laugh and pulled back only far enough to see Bucky’s face.

“ _Hanky panky_?” He lifted his eyebrows, “Really?”

Bucky smiled. “What, you kids call it something different these days?”

Sam matched Bucky’s smile, and was reaching for a witty response when Bucky leaned in to press his lips against Sam’s.

It was a tender, quiet kiss that lasted a second, an hour, a year.

It was a declaration, a question, an invitation.

It was _everything_.

* * *

Steve listened to the sound of muffled music and low murmurs coming from the common room and smiled as he put the finishing touches on his sketch of Sam and Buck.

“Did _you_ tell him?” He asked Natasha, who’d been lying on his bed, flipping through his old sketches.

“Nope.”

“Barton?”

“Nope.”

“Hill?”

“Nope.”

“Not... not Stark?”

Natasha sighed. “I think he figured it out on his own.”

“Huh.”

“Yep.”

“They’re only gonna get more annoying, aren’t they?”

Natasha responded with kissy noises and a melodramatic “ _Oh Bucky!!_ ” and “ _Oh Sam!!_ ” until Steve threw a crumpled ball of paper at her.

“Think they’ll be happy?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

 


End file.
